Friendship and Abuse
by smallgirlbigworld
Summary: Two friends are torn apart by alcohol misuse and subsequent abuse. Will they be able to forgive each other?


**Hello readers,**

**I wrote this story to promote a fundraiser that I have set up. I train in karate and am looking to test for my black belt. I hope to be an inspiration to other young females and empower them to be able to defend themselves. Please support my training using the following link: **

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**Enjoy the story.**

* * *

He was her friend.

They had known each other for a year, and had met through an organization that they both participated in. She was a few years younger than he. He was in his early twenties, and had led a rough life, full of abuse and trials and physical and emotional pain, but he had come out on top and created a new life for himself. He was not completely happy, but he was thankful. She was a teenager who had lived an uneventful life, with few experiences to learn from and a good future set up for her. She admired his strength and dedication; he appreciated her ability to listen and her quiet passion. They both valued each other's wisdom.

They were friends, nothing more and nothing less.

It was a summer night. There was a bit of a breeze, and the moon hung sleepily in the sky. It was late; there was hardly anyone out on the streets. The people of the big city were all indoors, enjoying the calm of the day. Those who were out were the nature lovers and the partygoers.

Her parents were out of town for the week on vacation overseas. They trusted her to be responsible; she had never given them any cause to believe otherwise. She was among the nature lovers, walking the streets, breathing in the calmness that was rarely felt in the city. She was wearing a lightweight dark top and shorts, nothing scandalous. She was alone, carrying only her phone, wallet, keys, and a knife. She had a strange passion for knives, but had never even considered using one against anyone. Yet she was a young, pretty female in a city, alone in the night, and the knife provided her with a sense of security.

He was one of the partygoers. He had been drinking, and had consumed too much alcohol. Unsteady on his feet, he had hailed a cab but could not quite remember his address – all he could remember were the cross streets where she turned off from their occasional walk home, and that was close enough. He paid the cab, leaving a generous tip in the hand of the frowning driver, and trusted his feet to get him home.

She saw him from half a block away, and recognized him immediately. Her pace quickened, closing the distance between them swiftly.

"Hey," she said, grabbing his arm and trying to ignore the smell of alcohol emanating from him.

"Hey," he replied, smiling up at her. He looked like a young kid who knew that they had done something bad but would not get a harsh punishment.

"Let's get you home." She knew approximately where he lived, and they walked together in the calm of the night. The soft light of the street lamps guided them, and the occasional cars passing by offered comfort. She supported him physically, as he had done for her many times emotionally and mentally. They conversed in low tones, her words soft and kind, his slurred and confused.

When they reached his house, she expected him to thank her and to turn away, to stumble up the steps, and to say goodbye. She would go home and sleep. He would wake up with a headache but ignore it and continue with his life; she would wake up happy and continue with hers. But that was not what happened.

"Would you like to come see my house?" he asked. Hesitantly, she agreed to. What could possibly happen?

But during the walk up to the apartment, the atmosphere changed. Their friends had told her that he was an angry drunk, but so far he had been kind. Yet with every step, the mood got darker as the light left them. Fumbling with the keys, he attempted to open the door, getting more and more frustrated. Finally she took them from him and turned the key in the lock, opening the door to a studio apartment. He pushed her in, then stomped by, grabbing the keys from her hand and slamming the door behind her. She winced. He did not notice.

"Welcome," he said. The big room served as a dining room, bedroom, and living room. She looked around, taking in the plain coloring. A mattress on the floor, a dresser, a television, an armchair and a couch, a large table with chairs, and a small coffee table were all that the room contained.

"It's very nice," she said. "Cozy." She felt behind her for the doorknob. "I'm going to go home now. Will you be alright?"

"Home? Why are you going home?" he asked, suddenly right in front of her. He was too close. She pressed herself against the door, uncomfortable with the lack of distance between them and overpowered by the reeking stench of the alcohol.

"Because I want to," she replied. "Goodnight." She twisted the doorknob, but found herself pinned to the door. His body was pressed against hers, forcing the door closed.

"Don't leave." He smiled at her again, but this smile was not impish. There was malice and ill intent behind that smile. She was suddenly very aware of her surroundings. And she was afraid. Incredibly afraid.

"I want to go home."

"You're not going anywhere." He had her pinned by her arms. Keeping a strong grip on her, he reached behind her and locked the door. She was questioning the situation. Was he truly drunk? Could he act this intentionally if he was? And yet she believed that this was not him. She knew him too well. He was too good to her, too close to her, to be capable of doing anything. He was not in his right mind. She was terrified. Suddenly the knife in her pocket felt very heavy.

He pulled her away from the door. She looked straight at him, and he returned her stare.

"I've always thought differently about you than any of the other girls. I find you beautiful. And fascinating."

"Let me go."

"No." She was suddenly pinned against another wall, without even having realized that they had moved. The door was on the wall to her left; across from them was the bed. She knew he was active, but she never realized just how muscular he was. He held her against the wall, gazing at her. She did not try to struggle against him. Instead, she just looked back at him, quietly challenging him. He switched his grip so that his forearm was on her neck, pressing against it, restricting her breath but not so much so that she could not breathe. He peered at her, tilting his head. With his other hand, he grabbed her hair, teasing his hand through the knots that had formed in the gentle breeze from her earlier walk outside. He was pressed against her, just slightly taller than her, enough so that his lips met her nose and when he breathed, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes but not moving his arms.

"You are so delicate," he murmured, pressing his forearm into her neck harder. She breathed in and out slowly. He moved his other hand to her waist. "So fragile." His hand dropped to her hip. "So pretty." She was finding it hard to breathe, not only because of his arm on her neck, but her fear was increasing. Her fear of him. She balled her hands into fists. She knew how to defend herself. She could punch and kick. But so could he, and she knew that she would never win against him. So she forced herself to relax, and pulled as far away from him as she could, hoping that the wall would relax its rigidity.

He opened his eyes, and she froze.

Slowly he kissed her. She kept her lips closed tightly. His lips searched for hers harder. She screwed her eyes shut. His forearm left her neck and she could breathe, but his hands were moving up and down the sides of her body, his figure pressing hers into the wall. She remained unmoving, but she wanted to escape.

She could stand it no more. She pushed him away from her with all the force she could gather. He stumbled backwards, and glared at her.

"You bitch," he spat, and his fist met her face. Her head whipped back, and she heard a solid _crack _as her skull met the wall. Spots danced in front of her eyes in the gloom, and she could feel blood beginning to ooze out of her head as she slid down the wall, her legs folding under her. He dragged her up again, and his fists met her face, her stomach, her chest as he punched her ruthlessly. She was thankful for the alcohol in him; she knew he could punch harder, but even so he was not holding back. Every punch hurt, and she was soon crying silently, trying to escape from his fists.

Finally he stopped, and she knelt on the ground, doubled over, trying to catch her breath. She glared at his back as he took his shirt off. He remained with his back to her, breathing hard. She quickly took out her phone and began a video, leaning it against the wall. If anything happened, she wanted absolute evidence; she had spent enough time in mock trials to know that a picture or a video was more important than any witness's turn on the stand.

She was startled when his hands grabbed her shoulders, lifting her gently from her crouched position. She did not look him in the eye. He positioned her against the wall again, a leg between hers, bodies pressed together, hands stroking her face and her figure. He seemed to have forgotten his previous violence against her. She looked anywhere but at him. All she could think about was that the camera could not see them.

She did not have to worry for long. He soon grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the floor to the bed. He forced her to sit down, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and began to pull it up. She tried to resist, but he slapped her hard, splitting her lip.

"That's too bad," he sighed, and licked the blood off before kissing her passionately again. He swiftly pulled off her shirt, and pushed her so that she sprawled backwards on the bed. Suddenly he was on top of her, kissing her face, her neck, her chest. She was thankful that so far, only the shirts had come off. Hesitantly, she placed her hands against his chest, and pressed upwards. He sat up, momentarily confused and still dazed from the alcohol, and she sat well, wincing as her headache roared with the sudden change in position and her ribs began to ache.

_I suppose he is drunk enough that if I act calmly, I will get through to him rather than if I act with force,_ she realized. She spoke to him directly, as she had other times.

"This is not fair," she began. "This is not you. I know who you are. You know who I am. Stop." He simply looked at her. She began to stand slowly, keeping an eye on him but not looking directly at his face. She stood fully, and he had not moved. But as she took a step away from the bed, she found him suddenly grabbing her, spinning her and slamming her into the wall. Her headache exploded, the impact forcing the breath from her lungs. Her back was to him, her front pressed against the wall. His hands explored her body, touching everything except that which was covered by clothing, which she was thankful for. She would not let him violate her. Not that much.

As she let him feel her, she turned into her own self. Her head was throbbing painfully, and she could sense the blood trickling through her hair. Her lip was pulsing, and she could feel her eye swelling. Breathing hurt; she was fairly sure that one of his punches had cracked a rib. But there were no worse injuries. Except for her those of her mind.

Steeling herself, she turned to face him, forcing herself to look him in the eye.

"Enough," she begged, lifting her arms so that they separated him from her. "Please." He just looked at her, then resumed kissing and feeling her. She closed her eyes. She needed to try something else.

Mustering her courage, she wrapped his arms around him slowly, forcing him to stop his passionate kissing as she changed her position. She could feel his muscles as he moved his hands along her body, and again she saw him as the injured young child she had always viewed him as. Pity struck her; pity for herself, pity for him. She knew that, if he remembered any of this, he would never forgive himself. But would she forgive him?

They remained in a quiet embrace for a time. Her headache grew with each breath, her ribs screamed every time his hands touched her sides, and the bruises developing on the front of her body ached where he was pressed against her. She tried to ignore the pain, focusing instead on trying to figure out how to make him stop and how she would escape. She could feel his breathing slowing. Getting him to sleep would be her best course of action. Keeping her arms around him, she pushed her body off the wall and slowly maneuvered him towards his bed. As they walked, he resumed kissing her face. She tried to ignore it. They reached his bed, and slowly, they lay down. She was taken by surprise when he again rolled on top of her, pinning her under him. He looked down at her, and she looked up at the ceiling. She had been so close. His eyes violated her, even though she was not exposed. She needed to stop this.

Uncertainly, she reached up and wrapped her arms around him, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She tugged down, and he half-sprawled on top of her. She bit back a gasp as her ribs and bruises complained loudly. He was on top of her again. Slowly she shifted him so that he was by her side on the bed, an arm slung over her. She rolled over to face him.

"I think you should get some sleep," she said.

"But I don't want to," he replied.

"You're tired. And drunk. You should sleep."

"But you're here. I want to talk to you."

"We can talk later. I'm tired and you're tired. Let's sleep."

Instead of replying, he kissed the side of her face, his hand exploring her body. She fought her reaction to pull away. His hand stroked her hair, her chest, her stomach, her legs. She just lay, trying to ignore him, trying to remind herself that this was not really him, that he would never do anything to her. But as his caressing became more passionate, resting on inappropriate places too long, she began doubting herself. So she rolled over to face him, allowing him to touch only her sides and her back, not letting him touch her front again. She tried to feign sleep as his hand swept over her back and held her rear, his lips gently but passionately wandering over her face. After what seemed like an eternity, his movements and his breathing slowed, and he dropped off to sleep. She did not move, fearful that she would wake him, but she knew that if she wanted to escape she had to act, and soon. He was sleeping off the alcohol, she reminded herself. He would not wake up for a while.

Slowly she removed his arm from where it was slung over her, and she slid off the mattress. She knelt there, waiting until she was sure that he was still fast asleep. He looked so peaceful, so like the friend who had helped her, who had offered her his wisdom, who had listened to her problems and had told her his. And she knew that she would never be able to look at him the same again.

Silently, she walked to where her shirt had been thrown on the floor and put it on. She crossed the room and picked up her phone and stopped the video. It felt heavy in her hand, and the knife in her pocket was like a weight. She turned around to look at him, unsure of what to do. Would he remember? Or would the memories be blocked by the alcohol? But he was not the type to ever forget anything. If he remembered, she did not know what he would do. So she found a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote a note. She folded it and wrote his name on the front, placed it on the dresser, and walked out of his house without looking back at him.

He woke up with a pounding headache. He vaguely remembered the party from the night before. He stumbled to the bathroom and drank out of the faucet, and slouched back to his bed. But something made him pause.

Why was there blood on the wall?

Suddenly he was wide awake. His headache was the least of his problems now. There was blood on the wall next to his bed. And there, on the pillows too. And on the opposite side of the room, a long streak of blood ran down the wall. What the hell had happened? Why had he been bleeding? Had he gotten into a drunken fight? But no, he only had a hangover, nothing more. So why was there blood everywhere?

Suddenly her face flashed in front of his eyes. She looked terrified. He was very close to her. His hands remembered the feel of her skin.

What had happened? Was it a dream? Why was there blood?

He needed to go outside. He could not look at the blood. He went to change, and froze when he saw his name on a note on his dresser.

It was in her handwriting.

His hands trembled as he read the note. When he had finished, it fluttered to the floor, and he was standing still in shock staring into the distance.

_You probably won't remember what happened. You were drunk. Don't worry, I'm okay. Mostly. I have a split lip, a black eye, a broken rib, and my head is bleeding._

_Sorry, I haven't told you what happened._

_As I said, you were drunk. I was out last night, and I saw you stumbling home. I decided to help you. We came to your house and you insisted on me seeing where you lived. But when we came inside, you_

_I don't know how to say this_

_You attacked me. I suppose some people would call it sexual abuse. You tried to kiss me. You did kiss me. Actually, you did more than just kiss me. You touched me. And you hit me when I tried to make you stop._

_I know you would tell me that I should have hit you back. You know and I know that I can defend myself if I have to. I did consider it. I know you would have wanted me to defend myself. But I couldn't. Not against you. You weren't you, but I couldn't hurt you anyway. So please forgive me._

_I took a video. I'll send it to you, and I'm going to delete it off my phone as soon as I do. Knowing you, you will probably watch it over and over. I don't want you to be too upset. Please promise me that you won't be too upset. And I can't afford to have you hurting yourself; I know you've tried that before. Please. I'm just as worried about you as you are about me. I won't forgive you if you do something to yourself. Yes, you did hurt me, but it wasn't you. At least, it mostly wasn't you. I don't know how much was you and how much was the alcohol, but I know that you would never, ever do anything to me._

_I'm going to a hospital now._

_I did love you, as a friend and as a brother. I still do. But if I am afraid of you, forgive me. You know I don't trust many people. I'll be afraid of everyone for a while now._

_I forgive you. I never blamed you, but I forgive you._

He had assaulted her. He had hurt her. He had betrayed her trust. And she had forgiven him. How could she forgive him? She had always understood him and believed in him and supported him. But how could she still be so kind after what he had done?

Numbly, he picked up the note and read it again. And again. And again. He did not want to check his phone. He did not want to see what he had done.

His phone was almost out of battery. It had a few texts from friends who had been at the party and many from the girl who was in love with him. The only one he cared about was the one from her. It was a single video, with no writing.

He began the video, and soon had to sit on his bed. The angle that the camera had been at made it so that not everything could be seen, only the movements, but he was thankful that he could not see her face, her fear, the bruises that his fists had created. He was amazed at how she had handled the situation. She had kept herself safe from him without hurting anyone. But he had hurt her. He knew that the injuries went beyond simply those to her body. He had hurt _her._

He lost count of how many more times he watched the video. But eventually he realized that he had to find her. He was the only one who knew what had happened. Her parents would come home to find her missing. And he had to see her.

The seventh hospital he called confirmed that it had admitted a teenage girl with a split lip, cracked rib, black eye, and bloody head a few hours prior. He was there half an hour later. He was in front of her room in another twenty minutes. But he was not allowed in. Eventually a nurse found him, standing in the hallway, staring at her name that was written on the paper hanging on the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"How is she?"

The nurse hesitated.

"Not good, I'm afraid."

"How 'not good' is 'not good'?"

Again, the nurse paused.

"She's in a coma."

He could not breathe. He had put her in a coma. The nurse continued.

"She experienced head trauma. The bleeding put pressure on her brain, which sent her into the coma. She also has a broken rib, and other minor injuries, mostly bruising." The nurse sighed. "She's just a teenager. She refused to tell us what happened, only that she needed immediate medical attention. She was right. When she was admitted, we put her on painkillers that had a sleeping side affect. That should have worn off a few hours ago. The doctor went in to wake her up, but couldn't. It's been eight hours. She should have been up at least four hours ago. She's not waking up, and we don't know when she will."

"I'm going to stay here until she does."

The nurse peered at him, curious about this young man who seemed so attached to the young girl on the other side of the door.

"I can't really offer you a bed," the nurse replied, "but if you like, you can make yourself as comfortable as you can in the waiting room. If we do have an open room, I'll let you sleep in it until we need it."

"Thank you. One more thing. May I have her phone, so I can call her parents and let her know what has happened?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. That would be the hospital's responsibility. I'll tell the doctor to call as soon as possible."

"They won't pick up. They're out of the country."

"Oh. When will they be back?"

"In a few more days."

"Alright." The nurse hesitated again. "Would you like to go in and see her? You're not really supposed to, but I think this can be an exception." He frowned, then slowly nodded. The nurse let him in, and gently closed the door behind him.

She was pale, almost as white as the sheets that she lay on. Her eye and the bruise on her cheek stood out in sharp contrast, and her swollen lip was bright red against her face. She had various tubes attached to her, with life-sustaining fluids flowing into her body.

He had done this to her.

Slowly he approached her. He wanted to say something, but did not know what. So instead he sat in the chair by her bed and slipped his hand into hers. He gently squeezed; her hand remained limp in his. He lay his head down on the side of the bed and began to cry, not removing his hand.

He stayed in her room for the next few days, leaving only to eat, and rarely at that. He read her letter and watched the video. He could not forgive himself. He held her hand and eventually began talking to her. He talked about his life, about what he loved and what he hated. He talked about things that he thought she would like to hear. He told her stories, fictional and real. The doctors and nurses did not disturb him. A cot was brought in for him, and he slept in her room. Her bruises began to recede and her lip returned to its normal size. The doctors had removed the blood that was putting pressure on her brain and she had stitches in her head. Her parents still had not returned.

On the sixth day, he was holding her hand and telling her another story about his childhood. Unexpectedly, he felt her grip tighten. Startled, he stopped talking and looked up at her face. Her eyes were opening. Slowly, but they were opening.

He stood abruptly and stumbled away from her, then turned and ran out of the room. He ran to the nearest nurse and told her that she was waking up, and soon doctors and nurses were rushing into her room.

He paced the hallway for an hour. Gradually people left her room, until one nurse stopped him.

"She's asking for you," the nurse said, and left.

He stood outside her door as he had on the first day. Finally he gathered his courage and walked in.

She was sitting up. When he entered, she looked at him for a second before turning her head away. He could see her tense up. Slowly he approached her, stopping a few feet away from the bed.

They remained in silence for a few minutes. She was the first one to break the silence.

"I know you watched the video."

"Yes."

"Did you delete it?"

"No."

"I didn't think you would."

Silence reigned once again. This time, he was the one to speak.

"I don't know what to say. You said you've forgiven me. But I haven't forgiven myself. I don't know if I ever will. I hurt you. I hurt your body but I know I hurt more than just that. I did terrible things to you, and I'm so, so sorry for that. I'll never hurt you again. I promise." He found himself kneeling by her bed. She still had not looked at him. Her eyes were directed at her hands, which were folded on her lap. He continued, tears beginning to leak from his eyes. "I was horrible. I was awful. I don't know what happened. You could have stopped me, but you didn't. Well, you did, but you didn't hurt me. You should have. You shouldn't have let me do that. I don't trust myself anymore. And I'm so, so, so sorry that I hurt you. I don't know what to do now. I – "

He was interrupted by her suddenly hugging him hard. He slowly returned her embrace. She shook in his arms, her tears forming a damp spot on his shirt. He cried into her hospital gown.

"I forgive you," she whispered. Slowly she pulled away. "I forgive you, and I still trust you. I still value your friendship and I still value you." She searched his face. "Do you forgive yourself?"

He took a deep, shaky breath.

"Yes."


End file.
